


So How Was it Supposed to Be?

by cruciomysoul



Category: Batman (Comics), Young Justice, Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice (Comics)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Police, Bluepulse, M/M, Valentine's Day, robbery homicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:20:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruciomysoul/pseuds/cruciomysoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Love of mine, some day you will die, But I'll be close behind, I'll follow you into the dark.</i><br/>Prompt: Stuck in the Rain, by <a href="http://jadekitty777.tumblr.com">jadekitty777.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	So How Was it Supposed to Be?

It was never meant to end like this.

They were going to grow old together. Have kids together. Adopt a dog, maybe a cat. Have some fish. Garner grand children. Move to one of those bungalow ranches, with a wooden porch that went all the way across and a swing. Some of those lovely and cushy outdoor chairs. A coffee table.

A large garden, freshly mowed every week by little Jimmy that lives down the street. Spend their Sunday mornings at church, their Sunday evenings at the homeless shelter. Their weekdays entertaining guests that ranged from natty neighbours to passing strangers to familiar familial. 

Supposed to stay with each other until the very bitter end, until they'd decided - together, no less - about whether they were going to heaven or hell, or both. Supposed to clutch it each other in their sleep each night, their frail hands and chopped nails too weak and gentle to leave bruises, yet doing so, because their skin, too, is frail and weak and lacking the elasticity it once had. 

It was never meant to end like this.

Not with their blood splattered across the pavement, not with the steaming engine of their rusty pick up truck that was mere inches away from combustion, not with all the smashed windows and broken doors in their house, but a few metres away. Not with a criminal on the loose, blood of the innocent on his hands, and a death sentence if there ever was one.

"They were good people." Bart says, laments, mourns, because he doesn't know them, had never met them prior, but knows everything about them, has perused their files, talked to their neighbours, their families.

The misses died first. Pronounced dead at the scene. Neither Bart nor Jaime were present at that scene, and, honestly, both are glad. The husband was still kicking. Still calling out, as they struggled desperately to get him onto a stretcher, into the ambulance, toward the hospital. But then he heard the words. The acronym. DOA. And, just like that, his light vanished.

The scene plunged into darkness. 

"I know, Bart." Jaime answers, and his words are useless, and thinks of how horrible it would have been for the officer who had to break the news, because no matter how many years, no matter how many casualties, this job never gets any easier.

They've been stood here for a little over two hours. All around, people go in and out of the house, carrying bags of equipment, wearing gloves and talking in walkie talkies. 

Bart and Jaime stand parallel to each other, ensuring that nobody unauthorised ducks under the tape. They're close enough to converse without raising their voices, without being over heard.

"I hate things like these." Bart is sulking, only because he'd rather sulk than cry, and Jaime knows this first hand, homicides are a sore subject for Bart, even after all these years, robberies gone wrong particularly so.

"This is going to sound horrible," It's not horrible, really, Jaime supposes, but it also kind of is, and, anyway, English isn't Jaime's native tongue, he can still blame his sentiment for getting lost in translation, even after all these years. "But I wish their car had stalled.

"They'd gone shopping, right? Neighbour said they went every Saturday morning. I wish they'd forgotten to get tomato sauce, so Mr Conway ran back inside to get some. I wish there had been congestion on the motorway, or road works at the island. I wish they'd come home to a few missing pieces of their home, rath-"

"Rather than a few missing pieces of their bodies. I get you, Jaime. It's not horrible. I wish so too. I'd rather spend my days catching a thief than a murderer."

Jaime doesn't say anything else. It's nice to know Bart understands where he's coming from. Hasn't misinterpreted it.

The first drop of rain falls about one o'clock. It splatters on the concrete, leaving a dark drop, but not as dark as the ones already there.

Soon enough it's a downpour.

The rain water washes away the red, tingeing and streaking the road pavement a dark pink colour as it all runs down the curb, towards the drain. 

They know from experience that the people in the house are no where near done. It hasn't even been five hours yet.

"Did you check the forecast this morning?" Jaime asks, because Bart is always awake before him, always has more time in the mornings. Never does anything productive with that time, however, which is a subject for another time. 

Bart shakes his head, fast, hair sending droplets flying. "Nope. Didn't think I'd have to. We weren't going out this evening."

No, that's true, they weren't. They were going to have a quiet night in. Order take out. Have a few beers, some glasses of wine, whatever drink they preferred. Neither of them were supposed to have work in the morning.

But then again, neither of them were supposed to spend their Valentine's day in the pouring rain guarding the scene of a robbery-homicide. 

**Author's Note:**

> you know i haven't wrote bluepulse in a very long time.


End file.
